Open Grave

by A. M. Peacock

  ‘And what is it you have to offer in this situation, Mr Lambert?’ the European asked.

  Jack motioned towards a terrified Robson. ‘Let him go.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  His gaze landed on Tank, who was flexing his hands, itching to put them around his throat no doubt. He’d have to deal with him later.

  ‘You let us both go,’ he went on.

  ‘And then what?’

  A noise behind Jack caused him to snap his head around. Nothing there.

  ‘Nervous?’ Tank sneered.

  Jack regained his composure. ‘I’m going to ring this in. You’ll have about ten minutes before you’re picked up. What you decide to do in that time is up to you.’

  ‘And what do I get in return?’

  ‘A head start and the life of one of your partners,’ Jack said, digging the butt of the gun into the bloke’s back for good measure.

  ‘We’ll just call this a failed negotiation.’

  It all happened too fast for Jack to register what was going on. The blow to the back of his head caused him to stumble. Releasing his hostage, he fell to the floor, faces blurring in and out of focus. Somewhere through the mash up of colours, he could sense men approaching him. A strong set of hands manhandled him to his feet before the bloke whom he’d held at gunpoint, just moments before, landed a heavy blow to his stomach. He retched, but stopped short of being sick.

  ‘A noble plan, Detective,’ the European sighed, before bringing his gun up and blasting Jack’s former hostage through the eye socket. ‘Everyone is expendable, though.’

  Smoke was still rising as the gun turned to him. Jack closed his eyes, readying himself for what came next. They say people’s lives flash before their eyes just before they die. If that was the case then Jack had lived an uneventful life.

  A sudden crash from the back of the room seemed to catch everyone’s attention. A shot rang out before the European hit the deck. Panicking, Jack nutted the man who was holding him before following suit and scrambling away behind a small container. He felt like he was in a scene from the Wild West as people threw themselves to the ground. Across the room Robson sat in stunned silence watching the carnage.

  ‘Enough!’ a voice called out.

  A voice Jack recognised.

  ‘Boss!’ he heard Tank call out.

  ‘You sure about that, Arnold?’ Dorian McGuinness said, his tone flat.

  ‘Detective Lambert, you can come out now,’ McGuinness shouted.

  Jack dragged himself up, the pain in his jaw throbbing away in syncopated rhythms.

  ‘I swear, I had nothing to do with it,’ Tank pleaded, flanked by two of McGuinness’s other hired hands.

  The mob boss stepped forward, no weapon in hand, but black leather gloves covering his sizeable fists. That was McGuinness’s style; never get your own hands dirty if you could help it. Jack was surprised he was even here.

  ‘You see that’s what I like about you, Arnold, you’re an ambitious man. I respect that. The problem is, you got greedy and got involved in something you didn’t really understand. It’s a shame because you had potential. Your biggest flaw was that you assumed I wouldn’t find out.’ He stepped forward. ‘This is my city,’ he spat, eyes landing on the now unarmed European.

  The European’s voice betrayed no emotion. ‘My employer will be most interested to hear about this intrusion.’

  McGuinness ignored the comment and turned to Jack. ‘You should probably go now, Detective.’

  He didn’t have a choice. ‘Robson too.’

  The mob boss shrugged.

  ‘And we don’t have transport.’

  Dorian McGuinness nodded, turning to face Tank.

  ‘Here,’ he snarled, tossing him a set of keys. ‘White van. You know the one.’

  ‘Oh and, Jack, I’ll need your phone,’ McGuinness said.

  He paused before handing it over. ‘You know I’ll have to ring this in.’

  ‘Of course.’ Dorian smiled. ‘I just need a few minutes to conclude my meeting here. I’ll be seeing you soon, Detective.’

  They’d barely made it outside before the screams started. Shuddering, Jack rammed the van into gear and sped up the dirt path. A cloud of dust sprayed up through the darkness onto the windscreen. Robson remained silent, eyes straight ahead. They needed hospital attention, straight away.

  ‘Phone?’ he called across to his passenger.

  No answer.

  ‘Robson. Do you have a phone?’

  The journalist shook his head, dried blood planted in congealed splodges across his face. ‘He took it.’

  Within minutes they were at the Royal Infirmary. Jack dragged Robson out by his bloodstained shirt. An ambulance driver, dressed in pristine green, approached him to admonish him for parking illegally.

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ he informed him. ‘Get him inside. Also, do you have a phone?’

  The man stood, open-mouthed, and nodded.

  Leaving Robson to get checked in, he rang straight through to the office.

  ‘Jack, is that you?’ Watkins picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ he stopped him. ‘Get down to the Royal Infirmary, I’ve found Robson.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘No, he’ll be fine,’ he said, picturing the journalist’s severed finger. ‘I’m a little bashed up, though. Come down here and pick me up. Oh, and send Christensen down to the factory off the A1. Tell him he’ll need an armed team and to be careful. If Russell... queries it, tell her it’s all out gang warfare and armed suspects may still be on site.’

  Jack left Watkins to sort out the particulars. He knew it’d be a dead end, though. McGuinness would have cleared out by the time anybody arrived, leaving no trace of any action behind. He could drag him in for questioning, but he hadn’t actually seen him do anything. As usual, McGuinness was going to slip through their fingers.

  For now.

  What bothered him most, though, was that he would now be in his debt. And McGuinness had a habit of calling those debts in.

  He signed himself in and took a seat opposite a drunk couple who were arguing over a can of Tango. There was no sign of Robson. They must have deemed him a priority case. Severed limbs had that kind of effect on the NHS.

  After around an hour he managed to get seen by an extremely short, bald doctor with a Scouse accent. Numerous tests later they were able to inform him that he was suffering from three cracked ribs, a fractured jaw and, quite possibly, a moderate to severe concussion. Despite their pleas for him to stay overnight, he allowed them to patch him up and ply him with strong painkillers before leaving the building. The Tango couple were still bickering as Watkins greeted him at the entrance.

  ‘Wow.’ He whistled. ‘Quiet night?’

  The drugs seemed to be kicking in. ‘Not now,’ he slurred.

  ‘You look like an extra from a Rocky film.’

  The journey back to the station passed in a blur. He’d barely made it through reception before Jane Russell was on him, waving a cardboard folder in his face.

  ‘Just what the hell did you think you were playing at?’ she shouted.

  Jack noticed the young desk sergeant pretending to be busy filing paperwork.

  ‘Do we have to do this now?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re damn right we do...’ She caught sight of his swollen jaw, eyes narrowing. ‘What are you doing here in that state?’

  Her gaze fell on Watkins, who instantly turned a shade of beetroot.

  ‘Don’t look at me, I was just following orders.’

  ‘Orders indeed.’ She shook her head. ‘Well, as acting DSI, I’m ordering you to go home and take the rest of the week off.’

  Jack tried to work out what day it actually was.

  ‘I can drive him,’ Watkins suggested.

  ‘No, you clearly can’t be trusted. You’re holding the fort for him while he’s off duty. I’ll take him
home.’

  He was too out of sorts to argue with her, accepting the lift without comment. As she drove at high speed, Jack felt unable to truly grasp the surreal nature of being driven home by his career-nemesis.

  ‘I don’t want to see you back at the station any time soon.’

  Through the fuzz of his brain, he felt himself mumble a reply.

  ‘You think I’m not on your side but that’s not the case at all,’ she said, hands gripping the wheel. ‘But you make things impossible. It’s always about you, the great Jack Lambert. You’re not a team player. At the end of the day you’re more concerned with your own legend than doing things by the book.’

  He barely registered her comments. The rest of the journey passed in silence, as he did his best not to fall asleep. He pulled himself from the car, ambled up the path to his house. Behind him, he could feel the Bulldog’s glare burning into the back of his bruised head.

  ‘Oh, and, Detective!’ she called after him. ‘When you return back to work, you can expect a call from professional standards.’

  31

  On the seventh day of his recovery Jack felt like a kid at Christmas; only, instead of chocolate and presents, he had a job, unsolved murders and a trip to meet with an officer in professional standards to contend with. Still, anything was better than stewing in the house. Rosie had called once, to see if he was alright, but then disappeared off the radar again. He spent the rest of the week investigating the many bruises he’d been left with. Christensen had popped round with the Open Grave case files, but they were still no further forward. After two days of staring at essentially nothing, Jack – like everybody else on the force – was faced with an unsolved case that still had no link, suspect or motive. The press had given them a savaging, the only bright spark being that David Robson was out of commission.

  Having said that, the camouflage fibres did give them something to go on. Christensen had ordered a team to look into criminals, who fit the profile, with an armed forces link. So far it had proved fruitless, though.

  The New Year had passed without fanfare, save for the expected rise in crime figures. As Jack had sat nursing painkillers and coffee, he couldn’t help wondering what Nadine Guthrie, PCC, would make of that.

  So it was with a mixture of apathy and excitement that he bundled into work on the following Monday. As he walked past the desk sergeant he couldn’t help but note the look of horror on her face. His bruises had taken on a yellowish hue and weren’t pretty to look at.

  ‘He returns.’ Watkins beamed as he entered the MIR.

  Jack managed a weak smile as the whole room turned to face him.

  ‘Any update?’

  The young sergeant’s smile disappeared. ‘Nothing.’

  Jack nodded. Even though Russell had forbidden him from getting involved, he’d still managed to twist the odd update out of the DS during his time off, much to the nervousness of his youthful apprentice. Apparently, Jane Russell had threatened them all with castration if they so much as went near him during his ‘sabbatical.’ Jack had informed Watkins that his ex-wife still had his balls anyway.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said.

  ‘And just what am I paying you all for?’ Jane’s voice thundered.

  Jack turned to face his acting boss and put on his best fake smile. ‘Jane.’

  ‘Jack,’ she said, curtly. ‘I have a press conference scheduled for...’ She caught his appearance. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Just as well, boss,’ he said, turning to leave. ‘I have a meeting with professional standards.’

  Minutes later he was standing outside the frosted-glass entrance to Larry Dawkins’s office. Taking a moment to straighten his appearance, he stood up straight and knocked three times.

  ‘Come in,’ a deep, gravelly voice boomed from inside.

  Jack entered.

  ‘Ah, Mr Lambert, in trouble again I see. Can’t say I’m surprised.’

  For most members on the force being summoned to see Larry Dawkins, ex-county rugby player and renowned hard man, with his military haircut and immovable stubble, would be a trip to hell. Fortunately for Jack, he’d known Dawkins for a number of years, back in the day when they were both bouncers on the Quayside.

  ‘Can’t say I care,’ he replied, peddling their usual rehearsed lines.

  The fact that he’d visited professional standards four times in three years should probably worry him. As it was, he used the opportunity to catch up with his old mate.

  The giant of a man held out a strong palm and shook his hand before beckoning him to sit in the chair opposite him. Jack tried not to wince at the sheer force Larry had placed on him. Gazing around the office, nothing had changed since his last visit here. That had been due to his ‘poor’ handling of the Newcastle Knifer case.

  The officer still had an assortment of old rugby pictures nailed to the wall, alongside a painted portrait of his wife and two kids. In the corner of his room stood a bookcase, a number of true crime books and a collection of Jo Nesbo novels littered across it. The square space itself had no windows. Larry had informed him it was to make his guests feel at ‘unease’ and that he didn’t mind the lack of view. According to him, ‘Newcastle has very little to look at anyway for somebody who heralds from the beauty of Yorkshire.’

  ‘Nice bruises,’ he said. ‘See the other guy?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Jack replied. ‘Anyway, I’ve got murders to solve; you going to discipline me or what?’

  He left the office an hour later. He passed a smirking Jane Russell on the way. He at least tried to look like a man who had just been given a tongue lashing. Truth was, he’d spent twenty minutes laughing about a drunken story Larry had been recanting. Still, if it kept the Bulldog off his back, he’d let her go on thinking his job was hanging by a thread. God help him if Larry ever left. He was the only thing keeping him from a disciplinary panel.

  Christensen was waiting for him outside his office. ‘Boss.’

  Jack beckoned him inside. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We have a potential witness.’

  Jack felt the hairs rise on his arms.

  ‘Go on.’

  The two men sat down, Jack fishing around in his drawer for a paracetamol. His desk felt alien to him, having been off for a week. It was also clear that Watkins had been using it as his own personal workspace.

  ‘She’s an A-level student at Gateshead College. A...’ Christensen checked his notes. ‘Miss Ruth Grabham.’

  Giving up on the tablet, Jack motioned for Christensen to continue, knowing that the detective worked best when he was able to flow.

  ‘Ruth states that she was witness to Gary Dartford on the suspected night of his... abduction.’ As if reading Jack’s mind, Christensen added, ‘She says she didn’t come forward before because she doesn’t take much interest in the news and it was only when one of her friends pointed out a newspaper story, she twigged that he had approached her that night. As it was recently, she thought it best to report it.’

  Suddenly, Jack’s headache didn’t seem so important.

  ‘Is she here?’

  Christensen shook his head. ‘No, she offered to come in, but I thought it might be a better idea to go to her.’

  He was inclined to agree – it was important to treat her as a witness and, for that, she had to feel as comfortable as possible when questioned. Her place would do fine.

  ‘I assume we have the address?’

  Christensen held up a printed sheet. ‘All here, boss.’

  * * *

  Jack allowed Christensen to drive as he perused the notes they had on Ruth Grabham; no previous convictions and, to all intents and purposes, she seemed a perfectly normal A-level student. The only detail of note seemed to be that she had been adopted at a young age. Hopefully, Ruth could help them piece together where Gary Dartford had been on the night in question.

  And the killer.

  She lived in one of the new flats that had been erected opposite McDonald’s in
Gateshead. Gazing up at the apartment complex, Jack couldn’t help but wonder how long the phase would last. They thought it a good idea to build flats in the 1960s, but the aesthetic appeal soon wore off. Still, as far as student digs went, these were pretty impressive.

  Minutes later they were stood outside the main entrance, talking into a crackling intercom system.

  ‘Hello?’ a mouse-like voice greeted them.

  ‘Hello, Miss Grabham? Northumbria police,’ Christensen said.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll let you in. It’s on the top floor.’

  A trendy-looking man greeted them as they rang the bell to number fifty-eight. ‘Alright.’

  As they introduced themselves once more, the dark, neat-featured bloke stood aside, eyes never leaving them as they ventured into the living room. Closing the door after they’d entered, he followed them through like an irritating shadow.

  ‘Hello, detectives,’ a young woman greeted them, holding out a small hand.

  Jack shook it and waited for her to motion to them to sit down, removing a notepad as he did so. The first thing Jack noticed was her striking beauty. She had piercing blue eyes that seemed to stare right through them; blonde hair framing a small-featured face, and a figure most women would pay good money for. It was no surprise that Gary Dartford had made a beeline for her. She had a look of Nell Stevens about her, truth be told.

  Jack struggled to see the appeal though.

  ‘Hello, miss, we appreciate you taking the time to see us.’

  ‘What choice did she have?’ her companion snorted.

  Jack ignored him.

  As if taking the hint, he left them to it, muttering to himself as he slammed the bedroom door.

  ‘This is a nice apartment,’ he noted, taking the opportunity to glance around at the many framed pictures that littered the place, alongside what he assumed to be a fake Rothko painting on the far wall. The leather settee on which he was now sitting certainly felt expensive. EMA had been abolished in recent years but the giant plasma screen TV in the corner of the room told a different story.